Missteps and Misfortunes
by Sophie Rae
Summary: A well-loved plot variation for the well-loved novel. Moments before Mr. Darcy asks for her hand, Elizabeth reads a letter that alters her decision to his proposal but not her heart toward the man. Obstacles from within and without hedge up their way as the two learn how to move forward on this untried path. Sample. Complete.


Elizabeth Bennet sat stewing in the small parlor at Hunsford parsonage. She was alone, the Collins and Mariah having delightfully deserted her to spend an evening with Lady Catherine de Bourgh. After learning of Mr. Darcy's involvement in separating her beloved sister Jane from Mr. Bingley, she had feigned a headache and excused herself from the outing to Rosings. Now left blissfully to herself, she was determined to blissfully exasperate herself against Mr. Darcy—by rereading her sister Jane's most recent (not so blissful) letters.

Immediately Elizabeth noticed that Jane was indeed not happy. There was a lack of cheerfulness and ease that used to characterize her style. Glancing down at her most recent letter, a rather thicker letter than normal, Elizabeth decided to finally read it. She had waited to do so until after perusing the other letters to ensure that she would be as agitated as possible when she read it. Her disturbance revealed itself as she shakily pulled the sheets of paper out. To her surprise, there was a letter from her Aunt Phillips enclosed. Curiosity and surprise won over indulging her irritation against Mr. Darcy, and she opened her aunt's letter (a terrible correspondent, second only to Mr. Bennet). It was dated four days ago from Longbourn.

_My Dearest Jane,_

_I hope you are well dear, but I am afraid I must dispose of the pleasantries and tell you something rather distressing. I am hardly sensible enough to write it, your mother is quite incapable of doing so. Your father has fallen ill. He had something like a fit only last night and is now barely conscious. Your mother has kept to her bed chamber ever since Mr. Bennet's collapse. The apothecary has seen him (who I happened to catch in the street and thus was made aware of the incident almost immediate to its occurrence). Dr. Jones said that he believes Mr. Bennet will recover, but does not know to what degree or indeed how long the recovery will last. _

_Your mother has informed me that you have yet to meet again with Mr. Bingley. She begs that you take every opportunity to see him in town. She does not know what she would do if Mr. Bennet should die. She has told me to write that you cannot be so beautiful for nothing and that you must do all in your power, as the eldest and prettiest, to forward an engagement with Mr. Bingley. _

_She does not wish Lizzy to know about this. She would rather wait for a firmer idea on the state of Mr. Bennet's health before worrying his favorite daughter. My sister is also still rather piqued with Lizzy about refusing Mr. Collins and says that she would not be half so distraught if Lizzy had only done her duty and married Mr. Collins (I quite agree with her). Please let our dear brother know about this sudden tragedy. Send him here as well, if at all possible._

_Yours,_

_Aunt Lucy_

Elizabeth's already heightened nerves reached such levels after reading this news that she found it difficult to breathe, and for the first time in her life, wished she had her mother's smelling salts nearby. After several moments of near hysteria, she gained enough composure to read Jane's near illegible letter.

_Dearest Lizzy,_

_I do not know if you have read my Aunt Phillips' letter yet or not, but do so now. Such news as I cannot begin to know how to tell you._

_Now that you have read, I can inform you that my Uncle Gardiner is already on his way to Longbourn to learn first-hand about father's condition. I am to return there as soon as we receive post from him. He said he would send us an express as soon as he is able. I will wait to send these letters on until I hear word._

_Lizzy it is now the following morning and we have just received post from Uncle Gardiner. He is such a kind, good man. I do not know what we would do without him. Uncle Gardiner has written that our father is indeed in a bad situation. A doctor from town has seen him as well. He is in agreement with Dr. Jones and believes our father will recover, though never be what he was. Oh Lizzy as much as this news pains me, I know it can be nothing compared to the pain that you feel. Our uncle has sent word begging that I send this letter onto you. I know I need not even write this, as you are probably thinking of setting out to leave as soon as you have done with this letter, but please do come home as soon as you can. I will meet you at Longbourn, I pray. I only hope that the doctors are less optimistic than what actually may occur._

_Before I finish, I must add that Aunt Gardiner wishes you to know that Uncle Gardiner and she have assured us that they will take care of us should the worst actually come to pass. Though grateful for their kindness, I am sure you will mirror my sentiments when I write that I could never accept such a service. I think that our conversations about possibly becoming governesses or ladies' companions may come to fruition. Our prospects were never so great, but I will not in desperation seek out any former acquaintances that have ever only been kind and never left me with any sort of promised expectation. And please do not fret about what our Aunt Phillips and mother think about your decision. Father would not have wanted you to enter into such an engagement._

_Yours,_

_Jane_

Elizabeth stared at Jane's letter for she knew not how long, unmoving and numb to the awful truth that was threatening to close in on her. Slowly, her mind began to whir into frantic, detached activity, even as her body remained eerily still.

Her father would never recover, she was sure. Mr. Collins, in whose home she now sat, would soon be the master of her very own home. How long, no one knew, but it must not be long. Whenever Elizabeth had imagined this dreaded event, she had always pictured Jane already being married. In her conversations with Jane, she had only spoken of herself becoming a governess. Dearest Jane! Elizabeth could not imagine her sweet-tempered sister being forced to make obsequies to less deserving, though more fortunate, members of society. She knew Jane loved children, but with her docile temperament such constant demands on her person and kindness would, Elizabeth feared, eventually wear those incomparably loving qualities in her sister too thin.

For the first time, Elizabeth felt a twinge of regret for refusing Mr. Collins' hand. She looked down at her sister's last words. If her father ever regained consciousness, would he now regret his part in her refusal of that silly man? She had always been so secure in her own judgment and certain in her convictions about love, about marriage, about life. But what if Charlotte's views were the better ones? She always knew her friend's opinions were in every way the more practical. But Elizabeth, headstrong in nature and secure in the present, had never valued the steady, forward-thinking, though unromantic, views of her friend.

A complete disregard for her former ideals was stayed as she realized that for herself, at least, she still felt the same. She could never choose security over self. But what of her sisters? What of her mother, her silly, silly mama? Perhaps even her mother's single-mindedness to marry off her daughters was in fact less ridiculous than Elizabeth's own views. Elizabeth had always been blinded by her mother's poor execution and nervous, improper methods, but could she actually question those motives now—now that her mother's daughters faced poverty and degradation due to her own haughty independence? Looking around her friend's comfortable room in which she now sat, Elizabeth questioned again her own romantic willfulness. Until that moment, she never knew herself.

After more moments of unhappy reflection, Elizabeth finally willed herself to move. She must start packing, and make arrangements to leave as early as tomorrow. She suddenly realized that she still had not cried. Her mind was in too much turmoil. Tears would come, she was certain, but this brief moment of unreal disconnection had cleared her mind enough to act but left her insensible enough not to cry. She was grateful for the offering.

Just as she was on the point of quitting the room, however, the maid came in and informed her that she had a caller. Elizabeth was in no mood to accept any visitors and was going to inform the maid such, when to her utter amazement Mr. Darcy and Mr. Darcy alone walked into the room. All of the irritation and anger at this man, temporarily absent as she read about her father, flared up again at the sight of him. If not for his interference, her family's future could even now be secure. (She would never give credit to Miss Bingley's claim that her brother's affections had been successfully engaged elsewhere.)

So disturbed herself, it took Elizabeth a few moments to notice the obvious disturbance of her visitor. Yet, despite his inattention and impatience, having not even waited for an announcement, Elizabeth was ready to beg him excuse her. As she was forming her words, attempting to compose her voice, he succeeded in speaking first.

In an hurried manner he began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She replied in cold civility. Still determined to excuse herself, she was only too aware of _his_ restless manner. Though she remained standing, he sat down, but only for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Surprise silenced and distracted her from her purpose.

After a loud quiet of a couple minutes he came towards her, his agitation increasing with each step, and thus began, "In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. From actual shock, she found herself suddenly sitting back down. She stared, colored, doubted and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her, immediately followed.

"You know not, you cannot possibly know how long I have been struggling to direct my affection elsewhere. My heart, however, would not be given to another. The tenderness, I find, that I feel for you has overcome all my objections. When I first discovered my heartfelt attraction to you, I tried to reason away such a disgraceful marriage that any alliance with your family would inevitably bring. My mind recognized your situation's inferiority to my own, the objections which my family would most certainly not hesitate to make and the lack of judgment that I would be exercising if I abandoned my heart, nay my character and my own self, to a future with you. In the end, as you are witnessing, my heart did indeed win out. All my endeavors have been fruitless against the power of my love for you, truly impossible to conquer. Please do not allow my struggles to have been in vain, do not permit my anxiety and apprehension to persist, but tell me you will do me the honor of accepting my hand and reward my many months of battle by becoming my wife."

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection. His eloquence, however, on her family's inferiority and how he liked her against his will, his reason and even against his character roused her already seething resentment to voluble heights. She did not trust herself to respond. And although he spoke of his hope that she would accept his offer, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favorable answer. Such arrogance only exasperated her further.

It was with no little effort that she contained her anger. Had he proposed before she discovered her family's recent tragedy, she would have undoubtedly refused him. But, the cold hand of reason, sprung from her very recent sorrow, stayed her tongue. That she despised this man was no small exaggeration. But he was offering her the opportunity to redeem her former reckless behavior, to save her family from an imminent state of indigence. Could she possibly accept this man? Every feeling in her revolted against the very thought. But could she accept this man for her sisters and mother? She knew she must give him an answer, she could feel his eyes boring into her lowered brow.

Elizabeth envisioned Jane, her dear sister whom this man had willfully injured. How many more men would injure Jane when Elizabeth and her sisters were lowered to a baser level of society? Oddly, it was the cruel treatment that the man in front of her had already exhibited toward her family that turned Elizabeth's mind in favor of accepting his proposal. She was not going to allow her Jane, or any of her family, inane though they may be, to become the object of cruelty and caprice. With a martial glint in her eyes, Elizabeth raised her face to her worst enemy, her future husband.

Darcy noticed the peculiar, cold gleam in her eyes and his feigned fear of acceptance suffered a moment of real apprehension, until he heard her whispered acceptance to his proposal. He had been leaning nonchalantly against the mantle-piece, but her steely manner and the length of time it had taken her to reply wilted his bravado into a more rigid pose. He did not want to seem obtuse, but the contradiction existing between her expression and response required him to ask her to repeat her answer.

"Yes, Mr. Darcy, I accept," Elizabeth said rather loudly. Her emotions had undergone too wide a range of highs and lows, irritations and sorrow to remain entirely composed. She knew her resolve was not strong enough to repeat her acceptance a third time. And, though she recognized civility and tradition required her to express gratitude, she likewise understood that the observance of those niceties would be impossible. She was on the edge of complete discomposure.

Fortunately a happy thought spared her from withdrawing her acceptance; if she were the wife of Mr. Darcy, Jane would undoubtedly be in the company of Mr. Bingley. Perhaps her sister need not only be saved from a life of poverty, but actually enjoy a life of love. Yet, Elizabeth's offer was now and concrete and she must not rely on Jane's former capricious lover to secure her family's future well-being.

Elizabeth had been so wrapped in her own mind that she did not realize how explicitly her emotions and thoughts were playing across her face.

Darcy, who had expected a much more playful, and certainly a much happier Elizabeth, studied her curious expressions. He started feeling somewhat cheated of the expectation of joy he had anticipated feeling from finally succumbing to his heart. His vanity would not allow him to think that she was accepting him without real affection. His high opinion of her made it insulting to both that she would marry him for his fortune alone.

Grappling to understand the situation, he recalled that she had claimed to be ill. He had assumed she had feigned an illness to give him this opportunity to propose, but perhaps she really was unwell. He had certainly not been seeing her as he stared at her before his declaration, so occupied his mind had been, still vainly battling with his already decided heart. No, she must truly be ill, he wondered. And observing her fully, he noted she did have a feverish, pale look about her. "I should help her; certainly I may take that liberty," he thought. "We are engaged after all."

With that silent encouragement, itself a balm to his battle-worn soul, he approached her and asked gently, "Are you sure you are quite well?"

He seated himself in the chair next to hers, and pulling it even closer, tenderly rested his hand on her arm. The moment of elation and desire he experienced as his bare hand touched her soft skin quickly passed, as almost immediate to his caress, she flinched, turning her face and figure away from him.

Disappointed and now a little mortified, Darcy's reserve began to decay. He was on the point of voicing his offense when he heard an escaped sob. Elizabeth was crying? For he who had only ever seen her in high spirits, a lively and charmingly cheerful person, this proof of her private pain drove away propriety and embarrassment. He had seen his dear, soft-hearted sister cry too many times recently.

In a motion much the same as he often did with Georgiana, though with the intent and regard of a lover, Darcy drew Elizabeth into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder.

With more feeling than politeness, he cried, "What is the matter?"

Such a gentle gesture from someone she believed to be devoid of every proper feeling startled Elizabeth. She wanted to pull away, and yet, she soon found she could not. His arms felt so sure and strong and she felt so tired and weak. She allowed herself a moment of release, before drawing away from him. Darcy did not attempt to keep her in his arms. He knew he ought not to have held her so close in the first place.

"I apologize for my behavior just now. I meant you no harm. Please believe that I only intended to comfort you."

Elizabeth, regaining some calmness, felt obligated to say something.

"Do not trouble yourself about it Mr. Darcy. I thank you for your kindness."

She managed a small smile and Darcy took heart.

"Is there nothing I can get for you, Elizabeth?"

She made a face of unhappy surprise at hearing him say her name.

Darcy realized his mistake, asking softly, "Can I not call you by your name, my dear? You should know that in my mind you have been Elizabeth for many months. I cannot hide from you that you have, in fact, been _my _Elizabeth for many months and the opportunity to call you such out loud is quite as pleasant as I hoped it would be."

Elizabeth's cheeks, already flushed from her tears, deepened in color. Any lingering doubt about declaring his love evaporated as the dew before the sun at the warmth on her face. If Elizabeth could have looked at him, she would have seen how well heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him.

Casting her eyes down, the object of the gentleman's love knew not what to feel. That Mr. Darcy could be so in love with her and for so long was astonishing. That he should ask her to marry him, when he had done everything in his power to separate his friend from her sister was incredible. And now to have him treat her so tenderly, this man whom she would have never before thought capable of such kindness. She tried to absorb these new unexpected discoveries, for she still felt a visceral desire to move away from him, and it was her amazement at his behavior that utterly froze her rarely speechless mouth, not any discovery of regard for him.

He called her name again and she looked up. He was wearing that expression of intensity that she had so often noticed before. Now understanding it to mean a deep affection and not the steady disdain she had formerly supposed it to be, a blush washed over her face once more and she lowered her wet lashes.

"Can I get you a glass of wine? Something to drink, indeed you do look very ill. I hate to think that a night that should be remembered with pleasure will be tempered by a remembrance of sickness."

Elizabeth managed to shake her head, but she could not yet reply. His words had brought back to mind all of the thoughts that had so unexpectedly overcome her peace moments before. She knew she must tell him something, though. She certainly could not say that what pained her heart most was the idea of aligning herself to him for the rest of her life. Despite the care he now demonstrated, she could not forgive him, nor could she wish to be better acquainted with him. He was still the cruel man who had blasted the prospects of Wickham and Jane. But marry him, she would.

Her resolve reset, Elizabeth raised her head and squared her shoulders, in that universal, unconscious gesture of bravery. She could not tell him the reason for her deepest anguish, but she could and needed to divulge the other cause of her sorrow.

"Please Mr. Darcy, I apologize for _my_ behavior. I can only account for it by my unqualified surprise at your address and for some very troubling news that I just received from home."

She burst again into tears as she alluded to her father's sudden demise, and for a few minutes more she could not utter a word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and, not wanting to breach the boundaries of propriety again, watched her in silent compassion.

At length, Elizabeth spoke, this time successfully, "Forgive me again, Mr. Darcy. I have just learned that my father has, that he has fallen gravely ill. The doctor believes he will recover, but never completely. I must leave at first light to travel home. I really have not a moment more to lose. I must beg you to excuse me. I must ready for my departure."

She paused and summoning her courage added, "I am sure we can arrange the details of our, the necessary details of our understanding within the next few weeks, once things have settled down at Longbourn."

Darcy was fixed in astonishment. His timing could not have been more grossly impeccable. No wonder she had responded so strangely, even callously to his proposal. He had known since their first days together in Hertfordshire that she was the special favorite of her father.

Love had made him blind indeed—even to his lover. No more. His course was clearly marked for him. Darcy would not let Elizabeth bear this alone. He had declared himself and was determined to assist her in whatever capacity she would allow him. Did he not know for himself the great depth of loss that a child feels when his father dies? Five years after his own father's untimely death, he could still feel a fresh ache.

"Surely, Elizabeth, you cannot think I would allow you to take a trip like that alone? Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will accompany you. I had planned on putting off telling my aunt of our engagement until after my departure, but the circumstances now require it. It is no wonder you have long desired my absence. I should have paid more attention to your mood when I first approached you this evening. Whatever disappointment I may have felt in a deficiency of joy, the blame is entirely my own. I can only attribute my lack of penetration to my deep and abiding affection for you."

Again Elizabeth was shocked and baited by his comments. His absolute arrogance in having already won her affection and planning his future with her, prior to actually receiving her acceptance, roused her sense of vanity. But self, though it would intrude, must give way, as all other personal inclinations, to her determination to save her family. She swallowed back her vituperative reply, having completely ignored all the gentleman's latter words about his affection.

"Mr. Darcy—"

Here she was interrupted by the gentleman.

"Surely Elizabeth if I can call you by your name, you can call me by mine, or at the very least, abandon the more formal address."

His expression was one of hope and annoyance. Even in the chaos of her mind, she realized that although this man seemed ever stately he could behave rather impetuously.

In no state to offer him more than she felt his due, she stiffly replied, "Darcy, then, I do not think that at all necessary. I can take my maid and my uncle will send a man to pick me up at Brougham."

How could she possibly face the next few days if she had to endure this man? She needed time to gather her thoughts, compose her mind and settle her feelings. How could she reconcile herself to marrying this man if he insisted on being her traveling companion?

Frustrating her only further, he haughtily waved his hand.

"The trip will be much more expeditious if we take my coach. We would arrive there tomorrow evening. I am quite set on it Elizabeth and I assure you that argument here is pointless. I am in no humor to allow my betrothed to travel by hired coach with unknown persons when I can offer her a much more comfortable way home."

He paused, and smilingly continued, "Not to mention, as I told you before, fifty miles of good road is nothing to me."

The smile was too much for Elizabeth. If he was willfully going to impose his company on her (she ignored the realization that he would almost always be imposing his company on her once they were married), she would give in to all her fancy and be as morose and uncompanionable as possible. She knew it was childish, but felt impotent against his conceited obstinacy, and what she feared, was a strong streak of jealous possessiveness.

"As you like, Mr. Darcy," she huffed, reverting to using his formal title. "I only hope I am tolerable enough company so you are not tempted by more handsome women after the trip."

Elizabeth arched one brown. Her nostrils flared slightly. She had chosen her words carefully; twisting them to sound most like the first words she had heard him say—that fateful critique on her beauty. To her absolute dismay, his grin widened.

"So you did hear me. I always suspected as much. I have been waiting for the opportunity to apologize for that obviously ridiculous remark ever since I caught your satirical eye laughing at me. I do so now."

With an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye, Darcy slid of the chair and kneeled at her feet. Elizabeth gaped.

"Forgive me, my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth for my rude fastidiousness. I grant you permission to exact penance from me on that account at any time."

Having rather expected (and wished) to affront him, she was amazed at his good humor and gallantry. But, her rare mixture of archness and sweetness had only ever excited Darcy's interest, and had in fact, been the very thing that had bewitched his mind and heart since almost the first moments of their acquaintance.

In spite of herself, and quite unexpectedly considering her situation, Elizabeth laughed at his very astute wit.

"You are brave, sir. I shall use all my cunning and my family's peculiarities to find what will be the most effective penance."

Darcy, suddenly standing up, bent over her hands and kissing them, replied with a roguish teasing to match her own.

"I look forward to it, Miss Bennet."

For a moment, Elizabeth was lost in the intensity of his gaze. She wondered what he would do next, when she heard the sound of carriage wheels grinding into the gravel driveway.

"The Collins are home," she exclaimed rather stupidly. "I think you best leave, sir."

Elizabeth rose, grateful for their arrival as it spared her from his enigmatic presence.

"Very well," he said, reluctantly sweeping toward the door. He picked up his hat and gloves. "I will arrange everything for traveling tomorrow. Does seven o'clock sound acceptable?"

Elizabeth merely nodded. The disturbance of her mind was great at this point and she knew it would take her last reserve of quickly decreasing poise to inform the Collins of her sudden departure and its reason. She was determined to neglect telling them about the specific events of this evening.

"Excellent. We will be here at six thirty to load the trunks," Darcy informed her. Then said more to himself than to her, "Fitzwilliam never enjoys an early departure, but he may not mind this one so much."

With one last lingering gaze at Elizabeth, Darcy quit the room, leaving his new, unwilling bride to face the Collins alone.

_Note: The rest of the story is available for purchase. See my profile page for the link. Thank you for the reviews and help._ _And thank you, especially, to Jane. Cheers!_


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